Blood and Flesh
by NatalieDragomir
Summary: Saruhiko left Homra long ago, but those memories refuse to stop haunting him.


Saruhiko ran his fingers over the blue material, thinking about his job. It took him quite a while to get used to Scepter 4. Sometimes, he still found himself walking the city sidewalks towards Homra, ready to open the doors and see all the familiar faces waiting around.

He hated those faces. Well, every face but one, that was...

But he also hated his current position. Having hours, superiors, real tasks and deadlines. It got old after a while. Saruhiko was never one to think much about his life; he simply went through the motions every day and repeated. Maybe that was why he never felt anything unless he was in the midst of battle. It was the only time his life became interesting.

During most other times, though, Fushimi only felt emotionless and bored. During moments like that, he found himself wanting to feel something. It was then the memories came back to him all at once, giving him a headache, yet it was a guilty pleasure. The earliest memory he could recall was him and Yata on the streets. They'd just gotten out of school and had no where to go. That was when they were invited to join Homra.

And how long had it been before they became official clansmen? Not long. Not even a week, if his memory served correctly. In the beginning, everything seemed fine. Saru felt content just sitting around people who, even if it was only half-heartedly at first, cared about him. And Yata took full pride bearing the insignia on his chest._ We are Homra, we are Homra_. Fushimi, even back then, didn't particularly care about feelings. What use were they? But seeing his only friend so happy gave them a certain appeal.

Things only spiraled downward from there, though. That happiness turned into an obsession with Mikoto, with his flames. Saru had always reminded Yata to not play with fire, but he took a liking to just that. Playing with those sparks without a purpose could only lead to getting burned. But had they ever even had a purpose in the first place? It never felt right, just sitting around a bar all day. But of course, Misaki wouldn't want to let go of this new found preciousness.

And then what? The next events seemed like they were all one. Saru had told Yata he didn't want any part of it anymore, earning him a frustrated scolding. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Yata would never side with him. But had he really hoped that maybe, just maybe, he would?

It turned into a backlash from the other members, too. Why would you leave? We gave you a home. That kid, he's only trouble. Everyone but Misaki's cherished Mikoto. The Red King simply gave Saruhiko an easy leave, telling him to get lost._ How does it feel, Yata? The person you care about most won't even back you up._

And then Fushimi found a spot in Scepter 4. All the emotions subsided and he was left with what felt like an empty shell. From then on, he took a little enjoyment in remembering, though it was also the worst thing he could've done for himself. The entire thought process only turned back to the same question: _why did I leave? I could've had what I wanted, right?_

But at the same time, he knew that leaving was inevitable. Homra did nothing but cause trouble. Staying with them would've led to more problems than joining a second clan he felt a desperate hate for.

Saruhiko pulled himself out of his thoughts, knowing he should get ready to go to work. There'd be plenty of time for thinking later. Standing in the shower, warm water rushing over his body, he took almost as much pleasure in watching red streaks pour down as reminiscing on the past. There wasn't any difference between this and recalling his darkest moments. Right now, he simply let the cuts become psychical And, blood certainly had a dangerous allure mixed with water. It was like medicine for his mind; his twisted, horrid mind. When the cuts remained in his head, they only ruined the memories, slashing at one another and having a violent fight over which one would surface first. In his head, they were often the cause of severe migraines.f

And migraines called for medicine, didn't they?

But Saruhiko knew all too well that he'd get home from work, hang up his sword, and lie on the couch doing nothing but thinking. When the bittersweet memories got to be too hurtful, he'd just let himself bleed more, taking interest in the red liquid running thick from his veins. Even that got to be quite boring after a while, becoming a normal event in his everyday life. He sometimes thought about it when it crossed his mind, if he even had a life anymore. Sure, he may have been living and breathing, but there was nothing to look forward to anymore. Was there ever?

And so, he'd put on the blue coat every day and head to the Scepter 4 headquarters, sitting in his office with a stack of papers. They all looked the same, filled with meaningless words and Munakata's scribbled signature at the bottom, serving no purpose as far as he was concerned. On a good day, Lieutenant Awashima would call him in her office, telling him he'd have to go somewhere in Shizume for a few hours. Unlike an average person, he didn't care about watching the clouds or enjoying the moment. His satisfaction came from watching out of the corner of his eyes, hoping to see a flaring red aura, and maybe catch a glimpse of Misaki. Or, at the very least, another Homra member. He still didn't care for them much; never would. But anger felt better than nothing.

On a great day, Captain Munakata would tell him he was assigned to a duty that involved going somewhere Homra might be, and being able to engage in a bloody battle between the two sides. Usually, Misaki was his opponet. Using both the red and blue aura always caught him off guard, even though Fushimi had used the technique countless times before. It reminded him that no matter how much he refused it, Saruhiko was always part of him. They were bound by the fiery aura, by the shining insignia, even if Saru's was blackened and burnt. Misaki always claimed to hate him. His constant shouts of "fucking monkey" made it all too clear. But Fushimi knew Yata better than Yata knew himself. Somewhere in that bastard was a lingering care for his old friend. He'd never really gotten over his departure. And, just like Saru, he still thought about it sometimes.

The day had gone fairly quickly, and before he knew it, Saruhiko was leaving the building once again. He could walk down the halls and outside without once glancing up from the marble floors. This was just more proof he'd been there far too long.

Quick and unnecessary formalities were exchanged between co-workers, everyone giving a friendly "see you tomorrow" to their associates as they passed. Saru hadn't even pretended to not see them, ignoring their presence completely. He felt the cool air hit his face, though the refreshment was short lived and he soon reached the small apartment he'd been living in for some time now.

And, just like predicted, he turned his mind to the old days. When that proved to be too much, he allowed himself some time to watch the blood drip from his arms and collect in a small pool. For the first time in a while, it didn't provide him comfort. It caused a horrible feeling to wash over him; depression, something he hadn't felt since the day he scratched out Yata's pride. Hopelessness, loneliness, it was all new yet too familiar. He was accustomed to so many things, including those he despised, like boredom and hatred. But pain, disappointment, why did they choose now to remind him that maybe he truly did regret what happened, that he didn't only use it as a source of emotion?

So for the first time in his life, Fushimi denied himself anymore of this "pleasure" and tried to clear his mind of everything that seemed to hurt him. He put down the now-red blade and closed his eyes, listening to the dull sound of the ceiling fan, trying to use anything to distract himself. This was something he didn't do everyday. This was something that didn't cause an instant wave of boredom. Maybe, instead of wearing this specific activity out, he'd only truly relax for an hour a week. Attempt to keep some of the appeal alive.

Still, remembering held a lust that this didn't. Relaxing felt good, sane.

But Saruhiko knew he'd never be sane.

**This was my first fic in a while, so sorry if my writing skills need a little polishing~**

**Anyways, thanks for reading! c:**


End file.
